


Just One More Florist

by atypicalowl



Series: OAMF [4]
Category: Young Wizards - Diane Duane
Genre: Burnout - Freeform, Character Study, Depression, Gen, Grieving, Harry needs to learn to go easier on himself, I mean if you read the first OAMF you know what you're getting into, sprinkles of humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 10:23:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19293802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atypicalowl/pseuds/atypicalowl
Summary: In an infinite universe, with infinite planets and infinite species of flowers, there are surely infinite florists.Harry Callahan is just one more florist among many, and it's starting to wear on him.





	Just One More Florist

Harry Callahan slouches in his seat at the ballet, wondering why he spent the money on these tickets. He debates if he even should have come.  

He hadn’t recognized the name of the show. It’s not classical ballet, like Betty did, instead some newfangled, modern, and interpretive show. The costumes are gaudy, and the choreography makes no sense to him. He can recognize some of the forms and movements, but they have a foreign layer to them. Were it a play, he would think it was being done in a foreign language that he didn’t speak, but occasionally had a word familiar to his English-speaking mind. It’s all nonverbal, though, as ballet tends to be.

So he sits there, in the darkness, watching dancers in absurd costumes mime things to tell a story he can’t hope to follow, and ponders leaving at intermission.

That would be kinder to the dancers, he thinks. If he just left at intermission, and then they wouldn’t have to worry about the dour man in the fourth row that they just couldn’t please no matter what.

But no, he couldn’t just leave. That would defeat the whole purpose of being here in the first place.

Today is, after all, their anniversary. 

Every year, they would go to a show on their anniversary. They alternated who would pick; Betty got odd years, Harry got even. Betty always picked ballet. Harry would vary more in his choices, frequently choosing musical theater, sometimes Shakespeare, and on one memorable occasion, a strange performance of vignettes that may have been connected, but may only have been related to each other by the fact they were performed on the same stage during the same block of time. They had gone home after that one, hotly debating what meaning the playwright had intended for certain sections. Betty was convinced that the soliloquy an actor delivered, perched atop a stepladder, ruminating about the visibility of the galaxy in the New Mexico sky, was an analogy for the mindset of scientists creating tools for nuclear war. Harry couldn’t speak to that assertion; he had lost the thread of everything about the time the chicken roller skated across the stage and harassed the character of the homeless man.  

That play, at least, had felt vaguely like it made some kind of sense, if only one spent the time to pick apart its pieces. This ballet, however, was exceeding Harry’s ability to interpret.

Betty would want him to try, though.

He never complained about the ballets they saw together. It wasn’t about the show, it was about spending time with her. It made him happy to see her happy. Without her, why is he even doing this? 

He wishes he had picked something else for last year’s show. If he had known it was going to be the last time, he would have picked something different. He would have picked a ballet for her. He would have let her choose. 

And he had almost forgotten this year, except for the little _ding_ his phone made at 10am a week before their anniversary — the reminder he had to set for himself so that he wouldn’t forget the occasion. Almost everything was sold out, being that it was only a week in advance, so he frantically grabbed the first ticket to a ballet that he saw.

He supposes there was a _reason_ it was still available that close to the show.

Harry doesn’t want to ruin it for the other audience members, or for the dancers, so he stays in his seat, clapping at the appropriate moments, ooing and aahing along with the rest of the audience. A facade of enjoyment, more for their benefit than his.

The show is apparently good enough for a standing ovation. He doesn’t fully understand why, but he stands and claps too. He tries to muster a little enthusiasm. After all, they obviously put a lot of effort into putting this show on, even if it wasn’t his personal cup of tea.

He drives home in the dark, exhausted and feeling like someone scooped all of the happiness out of his heart. He arrives to a cold, empty house. It isn’t surprising. His daughters are off doing wizardly things somewhere. They had told him in advance they wouldn’t be around.

The emptiness aches nonetheless.

 

~~~~~

 

The next morning, Harry very nearly sleeps through his alarm.

He had stayed up far too late, picking apart the ballet over in his mind, tossing and turning in bed, thinking of Betty, and watching the numbers on his alarm clock slowly change, each tick of the other clock down the hall reminding him just how little sleep he was going to have to function on the next day.

He makes the drive to the shop on autopilot, only vaguely parsing the gentle _clunk clunk clunk_ something in his car is making. It’s been doing that for a few weeks. It can wait a little longer.  

He arrives at the shop with some time to spare, so he bustles around in the quiet, wrapping up a handful of orders before he has to open the doors to the public. He tries to make a cup of tea, intending the caffeine to give him a much-needed boost. In his sleepy haze, he accidentally picks the blue travel mug he’s been meaning to get rid of.

He is reminded of exactly why he wanted to be rid of it when it dumps hot tea all down his front.

As he is standing there in the middle of his shop, tea dripping from his apron to the floor, he throws up his hands and makes a frustrated noise.

Harry supposes he should count his blessings. He made green tea, and he has a fancy kettle at the shop that allows him to set the water temperature, so while it was hot and unpleasant, at least he didn’t dump fully boiling water on himself.

Small comfort.

His first customer of the day is cranky, though understandably so. Someone being mad at you because you missed their birthday will do that to anyone.

His second customer of the day is cranky for no particular reason, but that’s okay. It’s early, maybe she hasn’t had coffee yet.

His third customer of the day is outright mean. He fills her arrangement with carnations out of spite.  

Mike enters the front door as carnation lady is leaving. He is sensible enough to wait until she’s out of earshot before saying , “Damn, she must have pissed you off. I haven’t seen that many carnations in one bouquet since the great Mother’s Day Rush of 2007.”

Harry sighs. “Is it that obvious?”

“Man, you get super passive-aggressive with your flower language when you’re mad. It’d be kind of funny if it wasn’t utterly terrifying to watch you insult a person, their dog, and their mother without saying a word.”

Harry makes a face at him. “Hey, I’d never insult a dog. Don’t make me get aggressive-aggressive with my flower language.”

Mike laughs and pulls on his apron. “How would you do that, with a cactus or something?” He ducks the carnation Harry throws at him like a dart, laughing.

Harry laughs too. It feels a little hollow, but it chases the edges of his bad mood away for a moment.

 

~~~~~

 

Harry comes home to an empty house again.

The girls were supposed to be back earlier today, but both of them texted him to not expect them until dinner; Nita is volunteering her time with an oil spill cleanup and got caught up in some finicky technical detail of the wizardry, and Dairine had a consult with some bacteria on one of Jupiter's moons that went overtime.

They're off saving the Universe, and he has a walk-in fridge filled with dying flowers that he makes look pretty.

 _None of that,_ he thinks, shaking his head, trying to get that thought to let go. _Work is stressful lately, but that's not the only thing around. I need to focus on something else._

So he does the dusting. It's never his favorite chore, but it has to be done, and usually he feels better when the house is clean.

Today it's mind-numbing to walk around the house with the duster, moving every knicknack and reaching for every shelf.

 _It'll be dusty again next week,_ he thinks _. It's nice and clean now, but it doesn't last. Nothing ever does. The dust will build up again, and I'll clean it again. And it will build up again. Over and over, until someday I will be dead and no one will clean it up._ He stops and shakes his head again, as if the physical action will somehow help rid him of the dark thoughts swirling around his head.

_Ok, this isn't working. Just finish this area and try something else, Harry._

Dusting is dirty work. If taking care of his living space didn't make him feel better, maybe taking care of his body will.

He gets in the shower, intending to let the hot water wash away both the dust and the stress of the day. He washes mechanically - lather, rinse, repeat for next body part - then stands in the spray, resting his forehead against the wall while his mind wanders.

He tries the exercise his therapist taught him, mindfully checking in on his body from head to toe, finding where the tension sits, and trying to relax that area. He finds some in his left shoulder and shifts, moving the joint into the water. He lets the heat soak in to find the knots that always seem to form in the muscle there.

It's not enough.

He knows he needs to do some stretching, maybe lay down on a tennis ball for a while. He never has the energy for the stretches when he needs to be doing them, and he never thinks to do them when he doesn't need them. So he just ends up like this, standing stiff in the shower, watching the water swirl down the drain without taking a single ounce of his tension with it.

What a waste of hot water and what a waste of his time.

He turns off the water, gets out, and dries off.

He's pulling on a clean shirt when his stomach growls and startles him. He doesn't actually feel hungry, but he thinks about it and realizes he had skipped lunch again. Food doesn’t sound remotely appetizing right now, but he lectures Nita and Dairine enough about staying fueled that he is aware of the hypocrisy.

He goes out to his favorite takeaway restaurant, a local Hawaiian hole-in-the-wall, and brings home dinner.

Nita comes home, sees the boxes, and grins at him. "Thanks Dad, I'm starving! How did you know I was craving this?" She takes her box of Kalua pork and starts to head upstairs. "This is going to make studying for my geometry final so much better." As she passes the kitchen table, she kisses him on the top of the head. "Love you, dad."

He's a little disappointed she's not going to eat with him, but he will be the last one to keep her from her studies. He lets her go.

Dairine comes home, sees the boxes, and grins at him. "You got Hawaiian! This is awesome!" She opens the lid of her mauna loa chicken, far too spicy for Harry's palate, and takes a deep sniff. He has no idea how she doesn't sneeze from the spice. "Oh man, this smells like Timeheart . I get the leftovers too, yeah? It sucks packing a lunch to Jupiter, let me tell you. I'm mediating this thing with the populations of two adjacent craters, and I swear sometimes I wish I could strangle an anaerobic organism."

Harry politely asks about her work, but she is in a hurry and quickly leaves for her room too. She hugs him on the way.

Harry sits alone at the kitchen table and opens his food. He eats silently. It doesn't really matter what he got; the meat and rice and macaroni salad all taste like mashed potatoes, even though his mind tells him it should be delicious.

It _is_ delicious, he can tell that if he focuses. Somehow, it's like his tongue isn't talking to his brain right. The taste is washed out, like a picture halfway between greyscale and color.

He is reminded of something Nita said about an acquaintance of hers once, some kind of small, light-emitting creature that used to be a black hole. He would eat light and asteroids and space dust, and knew that they all tasted differently, but figured that appreciating the difference was a skill that one had to work on, instead of something innate.

Is he becoming that alien to himself that he iss identifying with a sentient celestial phenomenon? 

 _This is ridiculous,_ he thinks. _Moping about like a mope because my daughters have their own busy lives. I have a social life too._

But no one picks up when he calls them to ask if they want to hang out.

He doesn’t want to be one of those crotchety old people that rag on smartphones. Goodness knows his has made his life easier, with reminders and calendars and the ability to Google things all sitting in his pocket. Still, he can’t help but lament the disconnect; they are used as everything _but_ phones, it seems. Everyone would rather text or use the social media fad of the week than have a good old fashioned conversation.

He puts on a movie. Something old and familiar.

He turns it off after 20 minutes; he can't concentrate, and the noise is aggravating his building headache.

Harry Callahan goes to bed wondering what the hell is wrong with him.

 

~~~~~

 

Harry wakes up the next day not feeling much better than he went to sleep. The world is still turning underneath him, though. There’s not enough caffeine in the world to deal with the exhaustion, but maybe it will help. A nice, warm cup of coffee to get his brain going…

The coffee maker is cold and empty. He had forgotten to set it up last night.

Sometimes, he is very lucky and Nita will have noticed and set it up for him. He’s not lucky today, but it’s not like he expects her to do it. Bless her, she has so much on her plate and still finds the time to care for her dear old dad. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?

The time on the microwave is far too close to the time he has to leave. He considers buying a coffee on the way, but remembers the last time the coffee shop near his work burnt the beans, and decides against it. He opts to take one of Dairine’s iced coffee drinks from the fridge, leaving a note apologizing for stealing it and promising to get more on the next shopping trip. He’s sure she will understand, even if he’s also surely in for some teasing because of the last time he lectured her about her caffeine habits.

The coffee drink is too sweet and has a vaguely chemical aftertaste. The cheap lid won’t screw back on the glass bottle, so he spends the entire drive to the shop worrying that it will spill. It’s the generic brand, he realizes, of course it’s terrible.

Dairine usually likes things that are brand name. She must have got the generic to try to save money. He will get her the good stuff the next time he shops. She shouldn’t have to worry about money.

The car is still making that funny clunky noise that he needs to get fixed. Is there a new “tick tick tick” in there too?  

There’s always something going wrong. He adds it to his ever-growing mental list of things he needs to take care of.

His bad mood lasts through opening the shop. The trend of the month is brightly colored, artificially dyed flowers. Harry hates them. They hurt his eyes and they look so, so tacky.

He tries to apply the saying “the customer is always right” in its intended sense: give the people what they ask for. Demand dictates supply, and all that nonsense that his economics professor rambled on about in his college classes so long ago.

He’s still _this_ close to screaming “NO” in the face of the next person who comes in looking for neon green daisies and sky blue orchids.

Nita was a dear and helped him find natural dyes; he does feel slightly better about using things like beet juice and carrots instead of artificial, chemical dyes. There’s a few colors he can’t achieve in this manner, but it makes him feel a little better to go the natural route when he can.

He vaguely wonders if it’s floral cannibalism to dye carnations with color made from marigolds. He makes another mental note; this time, to switch his yellow dye to something derived from turmeric.

His exhaustion is getting the better of him. An entire bouquet had to be placed on the clearance rack because he made some stupid mistakes with the arrangement. It’s a perfectly serviceable bouquet; just entirely unlike what the customer had asked for. He hopes someone buys it and it doesn’t go to waste.

He’s in the middle of another completely _terrible_ arrangement of neon, clashing flowers (seriously , have these people ever _heard_ of color theory?) when the bell over the door rings. He doesn’t look up at first, needing to take five more seconds to get the angle of the frankly migraine-inducing purple-streaked roses just right.

“Oh thank everything, you have rainbow flowers.”

Harry looks up and sees a vaguely familiar teenager catching her breath in front of his counter. He thinks she may be an acquaintance of Nita’s? Before he can ask anything, she starts talking, very fast.

“You’re Nita’s dad, right?” Called it. “I’m really hoping you can help me because I am _super_ freaking out here. I’m helping put on this big prom shindig for Pride, but the florist I had booked is ghosting me for some reason and everything else in the area is commercialized _crap,_ but I was thinking, Lissa, isn’t Nita’s dad a florist? So I asked her where your shop is I hope that’s okay and not, like, some breach of privacy or whatever, but I just honestly don’t know what I’m going to do if I can’t get these flowers and—“

Finally, she stops for breath, and Harry raises a hand to stop her. “Hi, Lissa, right? I’m Harry, yes I’m Nita’s dad, yes it’s ok she told you about me. Take a deep breath, let’s talk about what kinds of flowers you need. Would you like some tea?”

He gets her to calm down a little and have a seat. Seemingly nothing can stem the flow of words, and while he is getting a cup of chamomile for her he learns that the date she needs the flowers for is fairly far out, but most florists are booked in advance because of the popularity of Pride.

“I want to help, but I don’t know if I can,” Harry says, frowning at his calendar while Lissa sips carefully at her tea. “I’ve got other bookings around then, too. If it was earlier…”

Lissa looks around the shop. They are the only two there. She leans in. “How much do you know about Nita’s… Extracurriculars?”

Harry gives her a flat look. “Lissa, I recognize you. The last time I saw you, you were talking to my daughter _on the literal moon._ I am aware of the existence of wizardry, yes. _”_

She slaps her forehead. “Right, the thing on the moon. Duh. Stupid question, sorry. I’ve been a little scatterbrained lately. Too much stuff going on, too little time and sleep.”

He snorts. “It’s been going around. Drink your tea. It’s not caffeinated, it won’t mess up your sleep.”

“Decaf is like using a solar-powered flashlight .” She takes another sip nonetheless, then begins outlining her idea: a simple stasis wizardry installed in his cooler, modified to be, as she puts it, ‘Muggle-friendly,’ allowing him to work on the arrangements at his leisure, preserving them perfectly until they are presented at prom.

“I’ve already got the design all worked out,” she says, pulling a few curlicues of light out of thin air.

Harry startles and looks around for other ‘Muggles.’ The shop and the street outside are blessedly empty.

“I’ll just set up a solar collector on your roof to power it, then route the maintenance routines through the thermostat in your fridge. I’ll shoot Nita a copy of the specs for it if anything ever happens, but I pride myself on making self-maintaining wizardries so I bet this puppy could run for a century before you needed to top it up.” She makes another gesture and the floating lines of light vanish. “You get to keep the wizardry, of course. I’m sure having a magic fridge will be helpful. I’ll still pay full price, just consider it an extra tip for being the only florist willing to put up with wizardry _.”_

Harry thinks that sounds like an exaggeration – there’s a lot of florists on the planet - but who is he to turn down a wizard in need? The guest beds in his basement are a testament to that. He agrees.

Lissa launches to her feet and throws her arms around his neck, squeezing him tight.

He will forever deny the squeaky noise he made.

“Thank you so much , Nita’s Dad! You’re a lifesaver! I don’t know what I would have done if one more florist had said no! You are a super duper wizard florist!”

The bell above the door chimes as another customer enters and eyes them curiously. “Well, my wife is pissed at me because I missed our anniversary. I think a wizard florist is just what I need.”

Harry disentangles himself from Lissa. “Send me the list of all the color combinations you need,” he tells her. “I’ll get them on time for you, don’t worry.”

Then he turns to the new customer and puts on his best customer service face. “Well, I don’t know about wizardry, but give me some time to practice and I can pull a coin out from behind your ear. For a missed anniversary, though… Do you know what her favorite color is?”

“Uh, no.”

Behind the forgetful customer, Lissa makes a face and mouths something that looks like it might be “ugh, straight people.”  

 

~~~~~

 

Harry wakes from another night of sleep that is not restful in the slightest. The numbers on his alarm clock glow accusingly at him. He blinks at them, his eyelids feeling heavy and his mind feeling stupid. He does not want to get up. He does anyway, forcing himself to roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom.

He makes it to the kitchen. The microwave clock glows accusingly at him. He doesn’t pay attention to it.

The coffee maker is empty. No matter. He opens the fridge. The generic coffee drinks have been mysteriously replenished. He feels guilty, but takes another one anyway.

It’s easy enough to go through his day on autopilot. His hands know what needs to be done, even if his brain doesn’t.

The pleasantries with customers at the flower shop come automatically after all these years. The time seems to fly by and drag on at the same time.

He works on Lissa’s arrangements robotically. He watches his hands pick and place flowers just so, his work no less quality for his mind feeling so badly today. It should be more interesting, he thinks, to place each one in the stasis wizardry Lissa had installed in his walk-in cooler, the lines of light gently pulsing brighter to confirm the stasis took correctly. A rare brush with the forces the Universe was built upon, carefully assembled so that his ordinary self could interact with it. 

A college-age kid comes in, looking for something to give her girlfriend for her birthday. Her budget is low, but her eyes are earnest. “Whatever this can get me,” she says. “I’m not picky about the kinds of flowers, but her favorite color is yellow. I know it’s not much to work with, but I’ll take what you can give me anyway.”

Harry pulls out some less-than-perfect flowers and pads her bouquet to be about twice the size she can afford. She is nearly in tears, thanking him over and over. He smiles at her, or rather, manually forces the corners of his mouth to turn up.

“May her next trip around the sun be worth the journey,” he tells her, handing her the flowers, “though I think it will be, with a partner as sweet as you.”

She does cry, then, thanking him profusely as she leaves.

The fake smile drops from his face after she is out of sight. He sighs.

It used to bring him joy to use flowers to bring other people joy.

He puts together another arrangement for Lissa. He places it in the stasis wizardry, watching the visual feedback module flash. He pauses and looks around his cooler. It’s full of trimmed flowers sitting in water, awaiting the day they’re used.

Kind of macabre, if you think about it. He preserves dying flowers to try to make something pretty out of them. He’s a mortician for vegetation.  

The flowers lining the cooler swim a little in his vision. He had skipped lunch that day. He’s still not hungry. It’s not like anything tastes good, anyway. Eating is just a chore.

The lectures he’s given his daughters about eating right float through his head again. He has to practice what he preaches. He should be a good example.

He gets a protein shake from a gas station cooler on his way home. It’s bland and slightly gritty, but it has calories and vitamins. It is better than nothing, he supposes.

He comes home to a cold, empty house. There’s notes from Nita and Dairine attached to the fridge. He barely glances at them.

The specifics don’t quite matter right now. He knows his daughters are off saving the Universe.

What’s he do? He’s a small town florist.

“I know parents are supposed to be happy when their kids surpass them,” he tells the empty house. “I _am_ happy for them.”

He’s not sure he believes the words.

The house doesn’t reply. He would be worried if it did.

He sighs. He’s just a florist. One more florist, among the hundreds of thousands on this planet.

Did other planets have florists? Surely they did. He’s seen the flowers on Wellakhit, on the odd occasion Nelaid has taken him to visit. Surely where there are flowers, there are people arranging them.

Infinite florists in an infinite universe, and he’s just one more florist among many. Wizards run around, prolonging the life of existence itself, and he makes the dying flowers in his cooler look pretty. Does anything he does even matter in the end? Is the nature of his work counterproductive to that of his daughters’ Work?

It’s late. He is not going to decipher the nature of reality today.

He goes to bed.

 

~~~~~

 

Harry had never asked how Sker’ret piloted the mochteroof (though he did have to ask about five times how to spell and pronounce “mochteroof”). Somehow, it just seemed impolite. He didn’t figure it was any of his business how the motion of those innumerable legs translated into a bipedal form. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder sometimes. Does he pick four legs to do the job and the rest just stay still? Does he have some kind of rotation in which he swaps out control if one set of legs gets tired? Sker’ret doesn’t have fingers, so does that mean he uses extra sets of legs to manipulate his mochteroof’s hands?

Such were the ponderings that went through his head on days that Sker’ret was due to help out.

He doesn’t have time to ponder this further, though, because the Rirhait in question arrives with a miniature thunderclap of displaced air. Thankfully, the shop is not open yet, so the noise does not cause any ruckus among the public.

However, it’s Harry’s first clue that something is wrong. Sker’ret is the Stationmaster of the Crossings. Harry may not fully understand the intricacies of that title, but he knows Sker is a highly experienced wizard carrying a lot of responsibility . If he got that sloppy with a transit, he must be very distracted indeed.

“Hi Harry,” Sker’ret says, sounding as tired as Harry feels.

It really is going around.

Sker’ret’s human disguise is, for lack of a better descriptor, saggy. His purple hair droops, he picked plain solids for his t-shirt and pants instead of his usual zany neon designs, and he is moving around the flower shop at about half speed.

“You ok?” Harry asks, putting down a handful of black roses that he had been using for one of Lissa’s pieces.

He doesn’t hear Sker’ret’s full reply, but it sounds exhausted.

“Take it easy, bud,” Harry says distractedly. “It’s a marathon, not a sprint.” He should have said something more reassuring, but he can’t even think of _what._

He stares at the arrangement, hoping he ordered the white, grey, black, and purple roses correctly. He knows he ought to learn more about all the meanings of the Pride flags, but he is just so _tired._ He doesn’t have the brain space for all that right now, but he sure can make arrangements with the colors Lissa wrote down for him.

His fingers brush one of the black roses. He thought they were very depressing by themselves, but Lissa assured him that they were significant in that specific combination. Nita had helped him make the black dye. She said something about using charcoal in it. He didn’t think that sounded very healthy for the flowers, but apparently she did something wizardly to make it work. Or maybe she didn’t. He wasn’t sure. He just knew that they came out looking nice, and he supposes that’s what matters in the end.

There is a crash, a curse word in a raspy alien language, and the vase Sker’ret was working with is suddenly in a hundred pieces on the floor. Sker stares at it, seemingly unseeing. How do the mochteroof eyes work, anyway? The same two-to-many problem as the legs…

Any lingering thoughts about mochteroof piloting mechanisms left Harry’s head as soon as he saw how Sker’ret’s human hands were shaking. This wasn’t clumsiness, and regardless of how exactly the wizardry was translating motion from arthropod to human form, the trembling was definitely a bad sign.

“Hey Sker, sit down,” Harry says, gently guiding him away from the shards of glass and to one of the chairs. “Take a load off, I’ll get that cleaned up.”

He fetches a broom and dustpan and mop and starts doing just that.

What was he going to do when it was cleaned up, though? He hadn’t known Sker’ret that long in the grand scheme of things, and he wasn’t sure what the best way to help him would be. Nita was a talker, who liked to ventilate her problems, seek advice, and generally accept crowdsourcing as a solution to her problems. Dairine was more of a doer; it was better to give her something to distract her nervous energy with until she calmed down enough to talk things out rationally.

Which one was Sker’ret? Someone who would benefit from conversation and advice? Or would activity and distraction be better? Both? Neither? How do you comfort an alien, anyway?

Damn. Damn damn damn. He thought parenting was hard when it was just two human daughters. It was difficult enough to relate to the young of his own species. How the heck was he supposed to do it for the large purple alien centipede that was currently disguised as his seasonal shop assistant? 

He eyes the shop floor: empty. Good. He locks the front door, puts up the “back later” sign he uses when he’s in the shop alone and needs a break, and goes back to where he left Sker’ret.

Sker’ret is staring at the floor, hugging himself, unshed tears pooling in his eyes. “Sorry about the vase,” he mumbles in a monotone. He won’t look at Harry. “Sorry I made a mess.”

“It’s just a vase,” Harry says. “I can always buy another one. I can’t get another Sker’ret. You’re okay, right? Physically, I mean. You didn’t get cut?”

A small, choked sob escapes Sker’ret, and he shakes his head.

“Okay, that’s something. C’mon, let’s go to the back and have some tea. I got you.” He offers a hand and pulls Sker’ret to his feet, but Sker overbalances and stumbles into him. Harry closes his arms almost automatically, pulling him into a tight hug, and feeling the form of the mochteroof tremble against him.

“C’mon,” Harry says again, rubbing Sker’ret’s back. “Let’s get you to the back, and you can get out of that thing because I know you’ve been complaining it’s uncomfortable, and we’ll have some tea and get your feet back under you again.” He winces, because how unbelievably _stupid_ is it to use that turn of phrase with a Rirhait? Powers that be in a broken vase , can he say _anything_ intelligent today?

Sker’ret doesn’t seem to notice the flub, however, and lets Harry lead him to the back of the shop without protest.

The moment they are free of any prying eyes that may look through the front window of the shop, Sker’ret shoves himself away from Harry. Harry is worried, for a moment, but then Sker’ret does _something_ his senses can’t quite parse, and the mochteroof goes tumbling into a corner, a wrinkled lump of wizardry discarded like a musty T-shirt, and Sker’ret throws himself back into Harry’s arms. They both tumble to the floor.

It’s awkward, holding onto a being that amounts to several stacked beach balls and far, far too many grabby legs that make Harry think of tangled coat hangers, but somehow, he manages. Harry settles into a cross-legged sit, holding as much of Sker’ret close as he can, while the rest of his segmented body trails off onto the floor.

Sker’ret buries his eyestalks into Harry’s shoulder. It is a ticklish sensation, but somehow, not foreign in the slightest. How many times had he held one or the other of his daughters this way while she buried her face in his shirt? Some things are universal across species.

“I’m sorry about the vase,” Sker’ret hiccups into Harry’s shirt. “I’m sorry I just can’t do anything right, I just caused you trouble. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come today. I’m just making more problems for you.”  

 _This is about more than a vase,_ Harry thinks, and resumes rubbing small circles on the back of Sker’ret’s carapace. He has no idea if Sker can feel it, but it’s all he knows to do. “It’s just a vase, Sker’ret,” Harry repeats. “I have a dozen more like it. I’m not mad. I just want to make sure you’re ok.”

The back door opens. Sker’ret grabs Harry tightly around the middle, and Harry squeezes him back.

“God dammit Mike,” Harry whispers. “Of all the days to be early.”

“Harry?” Mike calls, just out of sight around the corner. “You here? I thought Steve was here being backup today, why’s the sign out?”

Harry and three of Sker’ret’s eyestalks look at the mochteroof, discarded in the corner. They look at each other, both coming to the conclusion that there’s no way to reach it in time.

“Harry? Bossman? Where are y—”

Harry and Sker look up just in time to see Mike come around the corner and stop short.

“Um,” says Mike eloquently.

“Hi,” Harry says.

Sker’ret makes a sound halfway between a whimper and a garbage disposal.  

Mike looks from Harry to Sker’ret and back again. “UM.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Harry says.

“I can see why you put the sign up,” Mike says.

Sker’ret makes the crying rirhait noise again.

Mike looks at Sker’ret. “Steve?” he asks, hesitantly.

Sker’ret makes the Rirhait approximation of a nod, but it does not translate, especially given that he is still hiding all of his eyestalks in Harry’s shoulder.

Harry does a human nod. “Yeah. He’s having a bit of a bad day.”

“Okay.” Mike stands there for a moment, watching them. “Okay. Um. Want me to make some tea or something?”

“What?”

“Tea. You know, boiled leaf juice. I don’t know, it just seems like the right thing to do. You made me tea that one time the crazy lady yelled at me for half an hour about that mix up with her orchids, so I dunno. I feel like maybe this is a tea kind of situation?”

Harry stares at him. Mike is being surprisingly chill about walking in on his boss tenderly cradling an armful of sobbing purple alien centipede.

“Yeah,” Harry says eventually, “I think tea would help. Make Sker’ret’s in the blue travel mug, please?”

“Ske-huh?” Mike asks. “Is that… Is that Steve?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok. Follow up question.”

Harry braces for it.

“Why the blue mug? That’s the one that leaked on you, right? Seems mean to give it to him .”

That’s not the question Harry was expecting. “Yeah, but it’s metal and I need to get rid of it.”

Mike nods, slowly, clearly not understanding in the slightest. “Okaaay. Not like that’s any weirder than the rest of this.” He does, however, start moving, puttering over to fill the kettle and pick out some tea.

“This is so embarrassing,” Sker’ret mutters into Harry’s shoulder. “I’m past my latency period but here I am, crying like a hatchling and I went and revealed myself on a _sevarfrith_ planet.”

“Hey, no,” Harry says. “We all gotta let it out sometime. It’s no good to just keep it all inside and stew.”

Sker’ret makes a noise that is probably analogous to a sniff in a human but sounds more like sandpaper on a cheese grater coming from him. “It feels like everything possible is going wrong at once, and I’m falling leg over jaw to keep up with it all. Every time I get one problem solved, three more crop up in their place!” He makes an irritated hissing sound. “Not to mention my _esteemed parent_ is constantly hovering, ready to use any mistake as an excuse to give me a lecture about how I should be handling things better. I had hoped that taking a day here would help, but _that_ lecture about slacking off on a backwater planet occurred right before I came here…”

“I’m sorry that your home life sucks so bad that working retail is a _break_ for you ,” Mike says.

Harry and Sker’ret both jump slightly. They hadn’t noticed Mike returning.

He has two steaming mugs of tea clutched by the handles in one hand, and the blue travel mug with the leaky lid in the other.

Sker’ret untangles himself from Harry and sits — more or less — on the floor next to him. He accepts the blue travel mug from Mike with a few of his legs.

Harry takes one of the mugs of tea and sniffs. Chai. He doesn’t know how the caffeine will affect Sker’ret, but surely he will enjoy the strong spices.

Mike sits across from them both. “So,” he says, sipping his own mug of tea. “Let me see if I got this straight. You got a ridiculously stressful job _and_ an overbearing parent breathing down your neck? Yeah, I can see how that would drive you to our quiet little corner of retail.”

Sker’ret takes a sip of his tea, and starts nibbling the rim of the cup absently.

Mike tries and fails not to stare.

Harry thinks about the Crossings. He thinks about the last time Nelaid had taken him there. How big it was; how bustling, how complex. How much it must _suck_ to be the administrator of all that.

There was a reason that, once upon a time, Harry usually let Betty be the one to take the girls shopping to the big malls. There was a reason he had a small, out-of-the-way flower shop instead of one in the bustling downtown. He wasn’t one for big crowds, or impatient customers, or angry travelers — everything the Crossings was.

And as Stationmaster, Sker’ret was responsible for it all.

Yeah. He didn’t blame the kid for taking a break and coming here to water flowers and ring up the occasional dozen roses.

Harry snaps back to reality when Sker’ret makes the angry hissing noise again. “I should be better than this,” Sker’ret says. “I shouldn’t let him get to me like this.”

Mike cuts Harry off before he can say anything. “To heck with ‘should.’”

Sker’ret wheels a few eyestalks around to stare at Mike.

If Mike is made uncomfortable from the sudden alien attention, he does not show it. “’Should this, should that.’ To heck with ‘should.’ Your parent, does he work for the same place you do?”

Sker’ret blinks with all his eyes. “Uh, not anymore. I took over his position when he retired.”

“Then he doesn’t get a say!”

The outburst startles Harry a little. He barely avoids spilling his tea.

“It’s you running the show now! Yeah, you can take his advice if you want it, but you can also ignore it and do your own thing! Stop focusing so much on what you think you should do for other people and do what you think is right! Don’t burn yourself out only living for other people. I get it, you got a lot on your plate and a lot of people counting on you, but you gotta take care of yourself too. You can’t pour for others out of your own empty cup, or however the heck that saying goes.”

Harry just nods along, wondering when college kids got so wise. He looks over at Sker’ret, who is looking much more calm. He’s not shaking any more, and he’s somehow managed to drink about half of the scalding tea (Harry’s only managed a few sips himself), and eaten a quarter of the cup. He’s set the cup aside, now, and is nibbling thoughtfully on the lid.

Mike is watching this, enraptured. “I see why you asked me to make it in that leaky old mug.”

“It is very tasty, thank you,” Sker’ret says.

A customer bangs on the obviously closed door out front. “Hey, are you guys open? You have your lights on but your door’s locked. You make it really hard to get in and shop. Do you even want business? Hello?” 

Harry sighs. It’s just going to be one of _those_ days.

“Go deal with the raving crowds, bossman. I got this.”

Harry looks from Mike to Sker’ret and back again, then shrugs in resigned defeat.

“Just a moment,” he calls to the front.

 

~~~~~

 

Harry Callahan slouches in his seat at the ballet, wondering why he even came.

He hadn’t recognized the name of the show. It’s not classical ballet, like Betty does. It’s some newfangled, modern, interpretive show.

They’re doing something interesting with the stage lighting, though. It feels like all of the dancers are bathed in brilliant morning light, though it’s not overwhelming to the point he has to squint. It brings out all the sharp edges and contrasts in their costumes, taking them from gaudy to radiant, and even though he can’t follow the story they’re trying to tell, he can appreciate that they are pouring themselves into the story.

“I like what they’re doing with the fusion of classical forms and modern ballroom,“ Betty says, in the seat next to him. “It’s unorthodox, but transformative.” 

“You’re the expert,” he says. “I’m not sold on the plot, though, but I guess I like the costumes well enough. The flowers are a nice touch. They’re using fresh, I can tell. Plastic leaves move differently.”

She giggles. “You would notice that, wouldn’t you.”

Something tickles the back of Harry’s mind as he watches the dancers drift through their routines, fringes and scarves streaming from their costumes like morning mist swirling around a pier, wisps of fabric gently defying gravity.

He blinks, far too slowly. There’s something he’s missing.

The music rings clear through the space, unimpeded by such petty things as acoustic physics and his slight tinnitus. He doesn’t have to squint to see the stage, he realizes. His astigmatism might as well not exist.

Harry turns and looks at Betty, just as radiant as the dancers, though there’s no spotlight shining on the audience. “Oh,” he says. “I understand now. This is a dream, isn’t it?”

“Of course. You wouldn’t have bought tickets to this show again, I think.” She eyes him sideways. “I’m not entirely sure why you bought them in the first place. Didn’t think this kind of show was your cup of tea.”

Tears well up in his eyes. “So this isn’t real.”

She smiles and shakes her head. “Silly Harry. Just because you’re dreaming, doesn’t mean it’s not real.” 

The dancers are still there on the stage, moving to the music, but they become part of the background, somehow. It’s not important for them to be front and center right now, so they politely retreat. Still there, if he wants them to be, but not right now.

The Universe shrinks to their row in the theater, bathed in that eternal morning light.

Harry lifts a hand slowly, tentatively to caress her cheek. She feels solid and warm under his touch.

She puts her hand over his.

“I miss you,” he says.

“I know,” she says. “I do too.”

He leans in, shaking, and rests his forehead against hers.

She is still solid and warm.

“I went because it was your year for ballet,” he says, trying to keep a shake out of his voice. “That was all I could get tickets for in time.” 

She laughs, a sound that is all bells and chimes in his ears.

“What? I thought it was what you would have wanted.” Even here, in this strange dreamworld, he can feel a blush rising on his face.

“The advice that Mike gave,” she says, smiling at him. “It wasn’t just for dear Sker’ret. You can’t pour from an empty cup, dear.”

She looks back out at the dancers, fading back into existence now. “Don’t throw yourself blindly into things because you think I wanted it, or it’s what you ‘should’ do. Do you want a ‘should?’ You should be more like them.” She gestures at the dancers, floating around the stage that just came back into view without having ever left. They have intention in every movement, each wave of an arm a sentence in a story, all of them radiating joy for their craft. “Do it for yourself, with your whole heart, because it makes _you_ happy. For yourself, not because of anyone else.

She leans in and kisses him on the cheek. “For yourself, because _that’s_ what I really want. Go see one of your musicals or something next time, okay?”

 

~~~~~~

 

Harry wakes before his alarm the next morning, feeling like he got at least a little more sleep.

The day goes well, or at least, better than they have lately. He finishes the arrangements for Lissa with Mike and Sker’ret’s help.

Unexpectedly, the two had become fast friends after Mike stumbled in on them. After Sker’ret calmed down, they spent the whole time chattering away about everything from astrophysics to molecular gastronomy. Today they were going on about the differences between Earth music and that of Rirhath B. He couldn’t quite follow all of the conversation, but they were enjoying it, and the pleasant background chatter made the day go by quickly.

He stops at the store on the way home and gets groceries, making sure to get some of the brand name coffees for Dairine.  

The house is empty again when he gets home, but that’s okay. It gave him a chance to get the groceries put away and weed the garden a little bit. He doesn’t have the energy to do much more, but it’s a start.

He showers quickly and throws on sweats, intending to finish the movie he had started the other night. He’ll get himself reset by relaxing the rest of the night, then maybe tomorrow he can see if his mechanic will take a look at the car… Smart guy, being open on weekends and taking the middle of the week off, makes it easier for people who are busy during the week.

That’s when it starts, the _knock knock knock_ , pounding away at the front door.

He frowns at the clock. Who would be coming over at this hour? It’s not like his daughters would be knocking at the door if they forgot their keys; they’d just walk through the back door. Nita startled him like that one time — apparently stepping _through_ the door is apparently more efficient than just asking the lock nicely to open up. He’s still not sure how that’s _easy._ Some of the finer points of wizardry still escape him.

He’s turning these thoughts over in his head as he opens the door. They all leave his mind the same instant that his heart sinks into his stomach.

Irina Mladen is standing on his front doorstep, a grave expression on her face.

A million thoughts leap into Harry’s mind, all of them sharing a similar theme. _What has happened to my daughters that the Planetary is here?_

He had been introduced to her once, briefly in passing, only finding out later from his daughters how high on the wizardly chain of command she was. The highest, in fact. On this world at least.  

_So why is she here?_

It is then that Harry finally notices Tom and Carl, and the expressions on their faces that can only be described as _sheepish._

Something unknots in his chest, just a little.

Irina still looks like she wants to increase local entropy, but Carl is holding a stack of pizza boxes, and Tom has bottles of something neon green labeled in writing he can’t read, but looks sort of like soda.

“Sorry to just drop in like this, Mr. Callahan,” Irina says. “I just found out that two of my most reliable senior wizards have not _taken a day off in three weeks straight.”_ She is not _actually_ dragging them by the ears, but exudes the overall impression that she would have.

The parakeet sitting on her shoulder tweets some indignant-sounding things at Carl.

“Hey!” Carl protests. “That’s uncalled for!”

More sharp tweets.

“You’re not winning this one, Carl,” Tom says, sighing.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Three weeks? _Three weeks?_ After the last lecture you gave Dairine for working for two weeks straight?”

Irina sighs. “Med wizards, heal thyselves.” She pats the parakeet, who is still saying (presumably) rude things to Carl. “Hush, it’s my turn to lecture. So, this is them being _directly ordered_ by the _Planetary Herself_ to take the night off. Their manuals are locked to Do Not Disturb under my credentials, and I will personally be taking their calls, so there is no reason for them to do anything but rest.”

“What if something big comes up, though?” asks Tom.

Irina smirks. “If there is an emergency severe enough that the entire population of Earth's wizards cannot handle it without you two, I think our problems will be larger than two burnt out senior wizards taking a night off." With that, she vanishes parakeet and all, a slick, seamless transit that does not so much as ruffle a hair on anyone’s heads.

“Uh, come in, I guess.” Harry steps aside from the door. “I was going to put on _Pacific Rim.”_

Carl smiles. “Sounds good to me.”

“ _Three weeks? Really?”_

Tom winces. “Well, you see, we—”

Harry holds up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it, Tom. And if I hear it anyway, you’re not getting any of the good popcorn.”

That perks them up. “The good popcorn?” Tom asks.

“You mean—“ Carl trails off.

Harry nods. “Yeah, she gave me the recipe.” 

Tom and Carl stare.

 

~~~~~

 

The movie nights had been their tradition, once.

Just the four of them, all piled onto the couch in the dark. A double date without having to spend money on restaurants or theaters. Sometimes the dogs would be there, resting their heads on whatever lap seemed most likely to pet them, or begging for a treat, as anything from historical romances to cheesy alien documentaries played in the background. Sometimes it was just the humans, reveling in the company and contact and the distraction from their daily lives. An island of support in a Universe hellbent on unraveling their sanity.

And always accentuated by Betty’s special popcorn. Light, faintly sweet and tropical, perfectly salted no matter what. She would never allow anyone else into the kitchen when she made it, cheerfully chasing them back out to the living room with whatever wooden utensil was close at hand.

He tried endless times to recreate it when it was his turn to make the popcorn, but somehow, he never quite got it right. There were several occasions they had to resort to the cheap, bagged kind, popped in the microwave, because he had made such a terrible mess of his attempt on the stove.

What can he say? He’s a florist, not a chef.

And every time he got it wrong, Betty sailed into the kitchen with a twinkle in her eye to help him clean up and tease him that he would never figure out her secret.

A few months before the end, she had taken him aside to teach him her method. He begged her not to, some despairing piece of him hoping that as long as the recipe was her responsibility, she would stay around to make it .

She didn’t listen to him, of course. She was always sensible like that. She patiently guided him through the process, teaching him the ingredients and temperatures and times.

It was coconut oil. Her secret was the coconut oil. Such a terribly simple secret, in the end, and one he had never even considered. No wonder she had always laughed at his strange concoctions of sugar, butter, and whatever extracts and ingredients he had convinced himself _must be it this time, I’ve got it I swear!_ He thought the girls used the coconut oil on their hair! But no, apparently they bought a different kind of coconut oil for that purpose. Who knew?

Harry sends Tom and Carl into the living room with a stack of paper plates and glasses for the drinks. They assured him it was nonalcoholic, but he is still very suspicious of the neon green color. It reminds him too much of oversugared sodas. He gets himself a glass of water, just in case.

He is about to pour the popcorn into the kettle when he senses eyes on him. He doesn’t turn. “No,” he gently chides, “I won’t tell you the secret either.”

He’s not sure if it was Tom or Carl, but they make a sad noise and he hears footsteps retreat back to the living room.  

Good. He’s not sure he would have had the gumption to chase them out with a wooden spoon.

He works slowly and methodically, carefully measuring and pouring and stirring, praying he’s not missing some piece of the puzzle that he’ll never be able to recover.

He pours it all into a big bowl and carries it into the living room to get the verdict. They all take their first bite of popcorn at once.

Much to Harry’s chagrin, it’s perfect.

He had almost hoped that he wouldn’t get it right. He hoped that if he made one of his usual messes with it, Betty would appear out of the aether to correct his technique. A childish notion.  

He looks over and sees the tears in Tom and Carl’s eyes. Then he doesn’t see them any more, because his own tears have blurred his vision.

“Is it good?” he asks, voice cracking, just like a kernel of corn under heat.

“Yeah,” Carl says.

“It tastes just like hers,” Tom chokes out.  

If some of the popcorn gets a bit soggy from shed tears, none of them will admit it out loud.

 

~~~~~

 

Nita and Dairine arrive home late that night to discover two Senior Wizards and their dad fast asleep on the couch. Carl has slumped over to the side, resting his head on their dad’s shoulder, and is drooling slightly.

They don’t need wizardry to come to a silent agreement. Finely-honed sister telepathy does just fine.

Wizardry _does_ help Nita tuck blankets around all of them without waking them, while Dairine gets the pizza and drinks cleaned up so they won’t have to deal with them later.

Dairine is putting the neon soda from the Crossings away when she stops and looks at something in the fridge. “He got fancy coffee,” she whispers.

Nita comes into the kitchen and looks over her shoulder. Sure enough, the coffee drinks have been replenished with ones that look more expensive.

There’s a note on them: _Saw you’ve been drinking these a lot so I figured I’d get you the good stuff! Enjoy! Love, Dad_

“I thought you don’t like those bottled ones because they taste weird,” Nita says.

“Yeah, but they were on sale once and I needed an emergency caffeine boost. Then I saw Dad started drinking them so I kept getting them for him.” 

They stare at the contents of the fridge for a moment longer, then close the door and go about their own nightly routines.

 

~~~~~

 

Harry sleeps in late for him. 10am is apparently far too early for Nita and Dairine to deal with his attempts to wake them. The former grunts and rolls over, ignoring him completely. The latter mumbles something vaguely annoyed at him and flings a pillow in his general direction. He lets them be. It’s the weekend, and they’ve had a busy week. He won’t begrudge them sleeping in a little longer.

Tom and Carl had stumbled off home around midnight. That was one of the benefits of wizardry – one does not have to worry about the commute home if one can just teleport straight from a friend’s living room to one’s own. If only his own commute to work were that easy.

He forgot to set the coffee again last night. Understandable, given he had company. He is heading to the fridge, intending to nick another of Dairine’s coffees (he’s starting to like them a little), when there is a knock at the front door. He wonders if Tom or Carl forgot something and are trying to be polite about coming back for it.

He gets another surprise when he sees who is on his doorstep.

“Hi Nelaid,” he says.  

“Hello,” Nelaid says. “You look puzzled. Did you forget we planned to visit the farmer’s market today?”

Harry had, but it doesn’t take long for him to get ready to go.

 

~~~~~

 

They wander the market, examining the wares and chatting about nothing.

Nelaid is intrigued by the concept of pepper jelly and samples some, and the delighted look on his face is enough to make Harry buy a whole jar to send home with him.

The market is very popular today. After a while, the crowds start to get to be a little much, so Harry buys them lunch at a nearby food cart and they find a bench in the park to sit on and regroup themselves.

It’s interesting to watch Nelaid eat his burrito bowl – he cautiously tries each ingredient by itself, dipping his plastic fork into the rice, beans, chicken, and salsa in turn. Harry can’t stop himself from laughing at the face Nelaid makes when he eats a bite of pure sour cream.

“This is utterly terrible,” Nelaid complains. “Why is spoiled dairy considered to be a condiment?”

“You have to mix it together, see?” Harry tilts his own bowl towards him to show him the way he had done it. “They’re not meant to be eaten individually.”

“Why is it not mixed in the preparation, then?”

Harry shrugs. “Easier and faster that way, I guess. Plus some people like different combinations. I mix it all together, but Betty liked to keep the salsa apart so she could have more on some bites than others.”

Nelaid considers this, and begins stirring his bowl.

The sun is warm, and there is a light breeze. Harry closes his eyes and leans back, taking a moment to just bask in it. The background chatter of the market starts to lull him into a doze. He just can’t seem to get enough sleep, no matter how early he goes to bed, and his body has taken to reminding him of that face at about this time in the afternoon, trying to persuade him to drift off into a nap in the sun…

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone fall asleep in the sun on Wellakhit,” Nelaid says.

Harry opens one eye and looks askance at him.

“Your Sun is so peaceful in comparison to ours. It is difficult to relax in the glow of Thahit.” Nelaid closes his own eyes, then, and tilts his head up. “But this is nice. I had never imagined I could find this relaxing, but I do.”

Harry rolls his shoulders and stretches. “I suppose I should try _not_ to fall asleep in the sun. It may feel nice now, but give it an hour and it’ll still burn.”

“True.” They sit in silence for a few minutes more, enjoying the day, then Nelaid breaks the silence with another question. “Are you okay, Harry?”

Harry startles awake, having dozed again. “Sorry, what?”

“Are you okay? You seem quite exhausted.” A concerned expression passes over Nelaid’s face. “I apologize, was bringing you on this outing too much?”

“No, no no, it’s just…” Harry rubs a hand over his face and sighs. “I’ve just been dealing with a lot lately. The shop, life, people in general… It’s tired me out. But I needed this, I needed to just do something that isn’t stressful.”

Nelaid nods. “I must confess, I also needed a respite. A chance to visit a world with a peaceful star, to wander an open market without fear of violence, where I am not a wizard or a king, but merely a friend.”

The reminder of his title makes Harry hide his face again. “Sorry, here I am dropping all my problems on you, and you’ve got ones so far out of my league.”

Nelaid swats him on the shoulder, startling Harry. “It’s not a competition. Your troubles are not weighed against mine on some cosmic scale of whose burden is heavier and who deserves support.” He puts aside his bowl. “Share your troubles with me, Harry. It’s not healthy to keep them locked away. I hear my people’s worries every day, whether I care to or not. It would be an honor to do so voluntarily for a friend.” 

So Harry does.

He talks about feeling overwhelmed at the flower shop, taking on extra orders because he’s afraid of not having enough savings in reserve for the off season. He talks about feeling like he’s not doing anything right, that any small mistake feels like it will have an earth-shattering consequence. He talks about his petty frustrations, how the little things like getting the car fixed or doing the dusting or changing a lightbulb seem like insurmountable tasks so he puts them off endlessly. He talks about the loneliness, and how he is happy for his daughters and respects their Work but wishes they could all have more family time. He talks about losing the joy in his own work, how it’s all become routine and robotic to him, and how even the most neon, eye-hurting flowers are starting to seem like just so many shades of grey to him.

He very carefully doesn’t talk about how much he misses Betty. He’s not sure he wants to admit that to himself.

Nelaid listens to all of this, nodding along and making interested noises at all the right moments. When Harry loses steam, trailing off at the end of a sentence he can’t quite figure out how to finish, he puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder and squeezes. “These are heavy burdens for a man to bear alone. Thank you for trusting me enough to allow me to share them.”

Harry doesn’t quite know how to respond, so he just nods. He’s still embarrassed that he’s unloading all this on Nelaid. He should be stronger than this, he should be able to handle this on his own…

“May I share an observation, Harry?” Nelaid asks.

Harry nods.

“I heard you repeat a phrase several times. ‘I should.’ You are spending a lot of energy focusing on what you think you should do, or what you think others think you should do. I have a question for you, if you are willing to hear it.”

Harry nods again.

“What do _you want_ to do?”

Harry opens his mouth to respond, but Nelaid holds up a hand to stop him. “Don’t answer so quickly, please. Take a moment to truly consider it.”

So Harry does. He thinks about his flower shop, and how he’s come to hate the sorts of flowers he “should” be offering because it’s what the customers are clamoring for. He thinks about Nita and Dairine, and how he “should” be doing more for them, two fairly independent young wizards who have been taking care of _him_ more often than not. He thinks about his garden, and how he’s been doing the bare minimum of weeding and maintenance, putting his own passion on hold because of everything else he “should” be doing.

“I want to help things grow,” he says.

Nelaid, who turned away to watch a family play fetch with their dog and a Frisbee, turns back to him, expectantly.

“I like helping things grow. That’s why I like gardening, and that’s why I became a florist. I want to grow things and make people happy with them.” He pauses for a moment, then continues. “I want to be able to enjoy growing things again.” 

Nelaid’s next statement is gentle, but feels like a slap to the face. “Harry, you need to include yourself in that.”

“What?”

“When was the last time you did something to help _yourself_ grow?”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it again. Dammit, he has a point. He sighs. “I don’t know where to start,” he confesses.

“Life didn’t evolve in a day. Start small, and just pick something.” Nelaid gestures to the farmer’s market, still bustling. “Perhaps buy a plant for your garden, and you can show me how to give it a home in the earth. Sometimes joy comes from the act of sharing.”

The image of a regal king kneeling in his flowerbeds, up to his elbows in dirt, makes Harry bark out a laugh. “Okay, okay,” he concedes. “I did see some heirloom tomatoes I was kind of interested in.”

Nelaid makes a pondering face. “’Heirloom?’ Have they been inherited from someone?”

Harry laughs and begins to explain.

 

~~~~~

 

Harry Callahan sits perfectly straight in his seat at the ballet, excited that he was able to get tickets to be here even though it was last minute.

He knows the name of the show by heart now. It may not be classical ballet like Betty did, but that's ok. It's its own newfangled, modern interpretation, with a wild, transformative energy that he’s come to enjoy.

He came prepared this time, with a week on Google under his belt. He spent tireless hours reading analyses of the plot and explanations of the symbolism in the costumes and movements of the dancers. He still doesn't understand it 100%, but that's okay. He doesn't need to. He understands enough, and the dancers are clearly having a wonderful time, pouring the joy of their souls into every step, glide, and lift.

Vaguely, he wonders what Betty would think of the way he cheekily ignored her advice and came right back to this ballet instead of choosing some other musical theater.

Somehow, he thinks she wouldn’t mind.

Not that her hypothetical opinion matters this time. He’s doing this for himself.

He oohs and aahs along with the rest of the audience, gasping in amazement when a particularly difficult piece of choreography goes off without a hitch. Genuine enthusiasm fills him from head to toe, and when the final curtain falls, he leaps to his feet to add his clapping to the thunderous applause.

He sticks around after the show to congratulate each dancer individually. He has a flower and a compliment for each of them, praising some aspect of their performance that touched him. He also asks to talk to the costumers and stagehands and techs, and while he doesn’t get the opportunity to talk to all of them, he is able to pass on a few compliments about the costuming and special effects.

He leaves feeling satisfied, brushing a few stray flower petals off the lapels of his suit. The way their faces lit up when they received the blossoms made him feel warm and content.

He’s glad that he can be one more florist, spreading nice things in the world. 

**Author's Note:**

> Forever and always, infinite love and gratitude to the best beta reader in the Universe, [fulldaysdrive.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fulldaysdrive) I couldn't do what I do without you doing what you do. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for letting me rip your heart out and put it back together with such things as popcorn and generic coffee drinks.
> 
> The "strange performance of vignettes" is inspired by a real play, bobrauschenberbergamerica, for which [the full script is available online.](http://www.charlesmee.org/bobrauschenbergamerica.shtml) Specifically, Betty refers to section "25 The Galaxy" and Harry refers to section "21 Why does the chicken cross the stage?" which involved a rollerskating chicken in the production I saw. 
> 
> The troubles with the generic coffee drinks are inspired by the absolutely terrible ones my local grocer started carrying.
> 
> The Hawaiian restaurant is inspired by my favorite local one - Kalua pork and Mauna Loa chicken is my usual order (I do order it less spicy than Dairine, though.)
> 
> The ballet Harry sees repeatedly is not inspired by any real-life show.


End file.
